Hodge Podge Musketeer One Shots
by Paige M. Carter
Summary: A variety of one shots inspired by the Musketeers. May contain slash. Warnings will vary by story.
1. First Snow

Athos wasn't sure what had first roused him, from a deep sleep, but when he reached for his bedmate and found nothing but mattress, he was fully awake. Looking around, he spied the youngest member of their group looking out the window.

"D'Artagnan? What're you doing by the window?" The lad didn't answer, seemingly fascinated by something outside.

Hissing at the cold floor under his bare feet, Athos padded over to the window to see what D'Artagnan was so fascinated with.

"What're you looking at?" He looked over the younger man's shoulder and was perplexed to see snow falling outside. It wasn't until he saw the sheer wonderment on the young man's face that he realized something.

"Have you never seen snow before?" He didn't need the answer, really. Of course, D'Artagnan had probably never seen snow before. It never got cold enough in Gascony to get snow. Athos had seen enough of the stuff to not find it particularly fascinating, but for someone like D'artagnan it must seem like magic.

"No," D'artagnan admitted, the look of wonder still on his face, "Not up close, anyway. Sometimes, if we were close to the mountains, we'd see snow on the peaks, but I've never seen snow like this." A small smile tugged at his mouth, "It's so beautiful."

"It is," Athos admitted. "However, it is also way too early to be watching it and the bed is getting cold. Let's go back to bed." Seeing D'artagnan's reluctance, he smiled, "It'll still be there in the morning, I promise."

Once D'artagnan was asleep, Athos pondered the realization that the young Musketeer had never seen snow before. Perhaps he could persuade Porthos and Aramis to help him show D'artagnan the joys of a snowball fight in the morning. Feeling the younger man shiver a little, he also made a note to find the lad a winter cloak, THEN they'd help him enjoy the snow.


	2. Ultimate Intimacy

Warning: Contains a HINT of slash, but only if you squint really hard.

Translation: Hih de Puta - Son of a bitch. Maman - Mom, Mama.

It was a general rule of thumb in the Musketeers that you didn't pry into your comrades' pre-regiment lives. Everyone had their reasons for being there, everyone had something in their past that they weren't proud of. Most of the time, Musketeers didn't even know each other's name. Some went by their family names, others used false names to hide from their pasts. To know a comrade's given name was a sign of ultimate intimacy and friendship.

When did d'Artagnan become such a good shot? Aramis could remember when the boy's reloading skills, or lack thereof, were the source of much amusement amongst their little group, but somewhere, d'Artagnan had become quick as lightning at firing and reloading. Aramis would've been much more appreciative of his friend's skill, if it wasn't for the fact that that skill was being used on him.

It had been a simple mission. D'Artagnan had been sent to Bordeaux, alone, with a letter to the garrison commander. Whatever it was about was of upmost secrecy, but the King had chosen d'Artagnan because, as a Gascon, it was felt that he would be able to blend in better. Only, it hadn't worked out that way. D'Artagnan had been captured by the Spanish and after two weeks, the rest of the Inseparables had been sent to find him.

They weren't sure just what had happened to d'Artagnan over the two weeks he'd been missing, but going by just what he could see, Aramis would guess that, at the very least, d'Artagnan had been beaten and/or tortured. Whatever had happened, it had left the young Musketeer extremely unpredictable and scared, not a great combination in Aramis' book. Even worse, whatever had been done had left d'Artagnan unsure on what reality was, confusing Aramis and Porthos for his, now dead, tormentors.

"Maybe we could storm in and knock him out," Porthos said, as they were hunkered down outside the armory where d'Artagnan had hidden, after being forced out by the young Musketeer's surprisingly good aim.

"I'd rather not have him testing out his aim on me," Aramis replied, cursing every saint that d'Artagnan's skills as a Musketeer hadn't been dimmed by his ordeal.

"What's going on," said Athos, who had been handling the removal of the remaining prisoners, having felt that Aramis and Porthos would be able to get d'Artagnan free and give him a cursory examination, "Where's d'Artagnan?"

"The Whelp is proving very uncooperative," Porthos explained as another gunshot echoed and the sound of a musket ball hitting the door.

"What the hell?!" Athos said, having taken cover besides Porthos.

"d'Artagnan thinks WE'RE the Spanish bastards that have been holding him," Porthos growled.

"So why are we in front of the armory?" Athos said, realizing where they were.

"He got away from us and holed up in there," Aramis said.

Athos sat, silent for a minute, "Aramis, how badly do you think he's injured?"

The medic shrugged, "I couldn't say. Based on what I've observed, I'd say he's got a concussion at the very least. The rest of it I can't be sure of and there's no way to tell how long he can last in there." They all knew d'Artagnan would last a lot longer than an average person just from sheer stubbornness.

Athos seemed to make a decision, "Cover me, but don't shoot unless there's no other choice and not to kill." He took off his weapons belt.

He got to his feet and called into the room, "Charles? Charles, can you hear me?"

Aramis exchanged a confused look with Porthos, but neither questioned Athos just yet.

There was a confused sound from inside the armory, but no shots were fired, which might be a good sign.

"Charles, it's Olivier. I'm going to come in, don't shoot me!"

To Porthos and Aramis' disbelief, Athos was able to get the door open without getting shot, but the scene that showed itself to them wasn't hopeful. D'Artagnan had gotten himself into a corner of the room and had two, very shaky, pistols trained at the door, his big, brown, eyes wild with fear and confusion.

Athos carefully put his hands up, showing that he wasn't armed, "Charles, put the pistols down. It's over, you're safe."

D'Artagnan's eyes narrowed, "How do you know my name, you _hih de puta_?"

"You told me once. You were knocked into a river and I almost lost you. You woke up and said that you'd heard your _maman_ calling your name. She always called you 'Charlie' and you said that it had been so long since anyone called you by your given name, you'd almost forgotten what it was."

Aramis could see d'Artagnan's grip on the pistols waver but, true to his stubborn nature, he refused to lower them.

Athos saw the wavering too and pushed forward, "That watch you wear, it was given to you by your father when you turned eighteen. It's got an inscription in Occitan, and you've never told me what it says. Under your shirt, you wear a crucifix that your mother gave you after your confirmation, even after some boys played a prank on the priest and she thought you were involved." By this point, he'd been able to get close enough to d'Artagnan to get his hands on the pistols.

"Your name is Charles d'Artagnan. You were born to Alexandre and Isabelle d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony. You're also one of my dearest friends and you saved my life by pulling me from my burning chateau."

By this point, d'Artagnan's grip on the pistols had loosened enough for Athos to get them out his hands with no trouble and threw them into a far corner of the room.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan whispered, as if still unsure that his mentor was really there.

Athos nodded, gently putting his hands on either side of d'Artagnan's face, "I'm here. _We're_ here. You're safe." Aramis and Porthos made sure to put themselves in their younger brother's sight, so he'd know that they were all there. That was the trick.

D'Artagnan practically collapsed into Athos' embrace, clinging to his mentor and older brother with all his might. Aramis and Porthos stayed near the door, sensing the very private moment, but wanting to remain nearby in case they were needed. They could hear the soft words Athos was whispering into the ear of their youngest, but little of it made sense to them.

Neither of them could find it in their hearts to be too offended or hurt by the realization that Athos and d'Artagnan were much closer than they'd realized. It didn't hurt too much that d'Artagnan was only comfortable with Aramis looking him over as long as Athos was in sight, or that there were clearly wounds d'Artagnan didn't want any of them to see. Their leader and their youngest had clearly found something in each other that they had been missing, just like they themselves had found in each other. It didn't hurt their bond as brothers, as Musketeers, or as men. They were good.


	3. Horse and Rider

Warning: This contains slash references. Don't read if that offends you. Was a fill for the BBC Musketeer Kink Meme.

Aramis loved to watch d'Artagnan. What wasn't there to like about it? D'Artagnan was a beautiful young man, even if he didn't see it. He loved watching him spar, he loved to watch him laugh and see that seemingly carefree young man he must've been before his father's death. He loved to watch him run, he even loved watching him help muck out the stalls, a job he didn't need to do as a commissioned Musketeer, but he supposed you could take the farm boy out of Gascony, but not Gascony out of the Musketeer. However, none of those beautiful images compared to watching d'Artagnan on a horse.

Aramis had often heard the muttered comments about d'Artagnan adding nothing to the Inseparables, but they all knew it wasn't true. Yes, Athos was the swordsman, Porthos was the expert in hand to hand combat and strategizing, and Aramis was the marksman, but d'Artagnan had his own skillset beyond his charming, sweet, personality and honesty: He was not only an expert horseman, but he had a gift with them that any Musketeer would envy. Aramis had yet to see a horse that d'Artagnan couldn't train to do whatever he wanted. His skill with them was enough that the King's own Master of the Horse would send over particularly untrainable horses to d'Artagnan to work on.

This was one of those days. The King had been gifted a horse from a nobleman in Lorraine, but the horse had never been saddlebroken and had proven reluctant to do anything but throw off every one of the stable boys and even the Master of the Horse.

Aramis watched as d'Artagnan approached the horse, shushing and talking to it. He'd spent the last fifteen minutes watching the Garrison's stable boys walk the horse around. Then he told them to step back and he climbed on the horse.

The horse bucked and jumped, doing everything it could to get rid of its unwanted rider, but d'Artagnan was patient, constantly shushing it and talking to it.

Aramis' trousers were feeling almost uncomfortably tight as he watched d'Artagnan's young, supple body ride out the horse's bucking and jumping.

"Enjoying the view?" Porthos said in a low voice.

"Just appreciating watching an expert at work," Aramis said, mildly. He knew he didn't have to hide his…proclivities from his brothers, but you never knew who might be listening. After checking to be sure no one was about, Aramis dropped his voice, "Sometimes I wonder if he's as good at riding other things."

Porthos smirked, clearly having wondered the same thing, but before he could say anything, a hand clapped down on Aramis' shoulder a little harder than necessary.

"You should really learn to keep your eyes focused on your own ladies, Aramis," Athos said, in a mild way that belied the possessive look his eyes always got whenever d'Artagnan was discussed. Leaning down, he pressed his lips close to Aramis' ear and whispered, "But, for the record, d'Artagnan is an excellent rider off the horse as well."

Blushing furiously, Aramis watched as Athos stepped away to join the stable boys and other Musketeers congratulating d'Artagnan as he finally got the horse to accept a rider. As d'Artagnan dismounted, Athos waited until the others had finished congratulating d'Artagnan, and then he was there, wrapping a hand around the young man's neck and gave it an affectionate squeeze before leaning in and whispering something that made d'Artagnan blush slightly, and smile, before ruffling his hair.

Aramis watched as Athos lead d'Artagnan, and the exhausted horse, back to the stables. There was no doubt that that little public show of affection, so unlike Athos, was meant for him and the message was clear: He's mine, back off.

Oh well. He could still watch and appreciate.


	4. Brotherly Advice

Inspired by d'Artagnan's mentorship of Brujon in Season 3.

Brujon leaned against what was left of the stable. He was a Musketeer. He was now commissioned and could support his family, and he was part of a General's staff. It should've been the happiest day of his life, but instead he felt like sobbing. He thought of all the comrades that were lost. Of Clairmont, who had succumbed to his injuries. Of all the cadets that had been lost.

He heard footsteps but didn't really register it until he heard a voice, "I thought I'd find you over here." He turned to find the Captain standing next to him. They stood in silence for several minutes before d'Artagnan spoke. "It's alright if you're sad right now. I was when I first won my commission."

Brujon looked at the older man in shock. "You were?"

D'Artagnan nodded, "There was a lot going on right before I won my commission and after I'd won my commission, I actually didn't feel happy at first because I remembered all the things I'd lost getting there: My father, my home, the woman I loved; it made it hard to feel happy at first."

Brujon looked at his mentor in astonishment, he'd never heard this before, not even from the older Musketeers. "What changed?"

D'Artagnan smiled, "Treville. He and my father had been friends when they were younger. He told me that my father would've been proud of me for becoming a Musketeer. Plus, I remembered that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had done so much to train me and that it was as much their victory as it was mine. They were actually more excited that I'd won my commission than I was at first."

Brujon sighed, "I keep thinking about Clairmont."

D'Artagnan nodded, "I'm sure. Having a friend die so horribly in front of you is never easy. If he was alive now, Clairmont would've been proud of you and so are myself and Madame d'Artagnan. Plus, Clairmont is going to be given a posthumous commission and some money will be sent to his family." At Brujon's astonishment, he sighed. "You and Clairmont were at the top of the list to get commissions before all this happened."

Brujon nodded, "I'm scared about going to the front."

"That's perfectly normal. I'd be worried if you weren't scared," d'Artagnan said. "Just remember to listen to the General. He won't ask you to do anything he wouldn't do himself and he'll look after you. Alright?" At Brujon's nod, he smiled, "Then you'd better get ready. Porthos hates to be kept waiting."

As he turned away, Brujon couldn't help but ask, "Does it get easier?"

D'Artagnan sighed and turned to him, "Not really, but you do learn to not let it stop you, but to fuel you." With a final smile, he left the stables and Brujon turned to the horse he'd chosen. He was still sad and scared, but he knew that he could do this, and he'd do it for Clairmont and all the friends he'd lost. He was a Musketeer, after all.


	5. Not Fail Again

Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.

Inspired/haunted by the look on d'Artagnan's face at the end of 3x09.

In his life, Charles d'Artagnan had gone through a lot of changes. From a poor, Gascon farm boy, he'd become a member of the King's Musketeers, a friend and brother to three of the finest soldiers in France, and a friend to the King of France himself, a husband, a mentor to a class of cadets, and a war hero. He'd seen men being blown to pieces by cannon fire, watched them die in pools of their own filth from disease, and nearly lost his own life countless times in the service of his country, but none of those things mattered now.

Kneeling in the grass outside the Palace, seeing his leader, even if Treville was no longer the Captain of the Musketeers, breathe his last after they'd finally saved the young King, and hopefully France, from its enemies, Charles d'Artagnan wasn't a husband, mentor, or anything else. He wasn't even in Paris on a beautiful day. No, at that moment, he was nineteen years old, cradling his father's dead body in front of some god forsaken inn on the road between Gascony and Paris in the pouring rain.

Treville had been more than a captain, he'd been a father to most of the Garrison, d'Artagnan's last link to his beloved father, though the fact that Treville and Alexandre d'Artagnan were lifelong friends was never discussed outside of Treville's office. He'd lead them through dangerous times in the field and helped guide them through personal trials. Now he was gone, and d'Artagnan felt as lost in that moment as he had cradling his father's body.

Only, this time, things were different. This time, they knew who to blame and what needed to be done. Gaston, Grimaud, Marcheaux would all pay for what they'd done. Looking at Athos' grim face through his tear-filled eyes, d'Artagnan could see that he and his brother were on the same page. They would bury Treville like the hero he was, but then they would have their vengeance.

He hadn't been able to save his father then, and now he'd failed to save another father figure from his death, but he and his brothers would avenge their fallen leader and save the King and France once and for all. They wouldn't fail again.


End file.
